


Fittings

by luciferesque



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 20:52:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferesque/pseuds/luciferesque
Summary: "It comes as something of a surprise to him, when she first approaches with the black plate of the Legion and asks him for his expertise." (Aeres has that top energy y'all.)





	Fittings

It comes as something of a surprise to him, when she first approaches with the black plate of the Legion and asks him for his expertise. **  
**

Logically, it makes sense – she is a mage. She has never had cause to don armor any more heavy than velvet robes. But something happened in those ruins – something that opened her mind to the memories of another from a bygone age.

After that, she is quiet, she is still. She is pensive. She watches carefully as he and Oghren and Zevran spar, taking turns with their swords and shields and daggers.

She watches and, it seems, she waits.

“Alistair.”

She’s standing there, in his room at Redcliffe’s inn, watching him run a whetstone carefully along the edge of his blade, arms full of dull black plate.

His hands tighten in their grip for a moment before leaning his sword against the foot of the bed, tip scraping the wooden floorboards.

“ _Yeees_?”

Aeres ears flutter a little at that, his special greeting just for her, but she remains otherwise stolid.

“I need… your  _help_.”

Alistair clears his throat, blinking quizzically.

“You– wait, what?”

Aeres shifts in place, gaze dropping as she examines her feet with odd intensity.

“I need your help. I don’t know how to. Well.” and Aeres extends her arms, showing him the armor.

Alistair stills uncharacteristically for a moment before he stands suddenly, beaming.

“You’ve never asked for my help before,” and he may as well be shouting it for all the world to hear.

“Yes well, I’ve never  _needed_ your help before.”

He almost deflates at that, but it doesn’t quite meet his lips, where he’s still grinning like a dog with a bone.

“And yet, here you are,” he smiles, stepping forward to scoop the armor out of her reach.

“Here I am.”

He sets the armor down on the bed, piece by piece, taking stock of it with his grasp. It really is beautiful craftsmanship, and quite sturdy for something clearly ages old. The armor was on the small side as well, and looked like it would fit her easily with the right adjustments.

“So, first you might want to, uh, change. Out of that, I mean. You’ll need something simple to wear under your arming doublet and hose,” Alistair tells her, handing over the gambeson and wool stockings.

“Yes, I suppose skirts aren’t ideal,” Aeres murmurs, gesturing to her robes.

She takes them in her hands, turning them over for inspection before uncinching the sash at her waist that holds her silks in place.

Alistair clears his throat, turning away quickly to check out the rafters, while Aeres makes quick work of it, switching out of her heavy robes and into the doublet and split hose.

“ _I’m ready_.”

Alistair grabs the boots from the bed and kneels down by her feet, pushing a crate over for her to balance her heel on.

“In general, it’s best to work from the bottom up. That way, once you’ve got some practice in, you’ll be able to armor yourself, or with very little help at least.”

Aeres nods and watches as he pulls the leather laces loose and slides her foot into the boot, one and then the other, before he fastens the plate guards over the back of her heel.

“Now, come the greaves and cuisses,” he tells her.

Carefully, he loosens the buckles as he moves behind her, slipping one over her shin, and tightens it in place, then up to her thigh – one and then the other.

She can’t see his face anymore, he’s doing his fitting behind her, but his hands seem well-practiced and steady against her wool hose.

He stands, picks the chainmail shirt up from the bed, and gestures for her to raise her arms up.

“This part’s pretty simple – you just pull it on and it rests on your shoulders,” he tells her, voice suddenly gruff.

She can hear his light breathing by her ear, feel his chest against her back.

It’s…  _strange_ , Aeres thinks. This contact, this touching.

They were often at the opposite ends of things; not surprising as a former templar and a former Circle mage, but he had taken to her as a leader, despite her inexperience, and they had been doing this dance of theirs ever since.

A rose, a lingering look, a shared sunrise. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything, Aeres knows better, but sometimes she catches herself forgetting what she knows and being taken instead with how she feels.

“Breastplate comes next.”

He brushes past her as he leans to grab it from the bed, secures it around her middle and shoulders, then buckles it deftly, securing the gauntlets and pauldrons over her hands and shoulders as he goes along.

Then, as if an afterthought, he grabs the helm, and carefully, slowly slides it down over her hair and face.

“And well, there you are. Easy, once you get the hang of it.”

Aeres rolls her shoulders, flexes her fingers as she admires the armor through the slit of her helm. It’s not too tight, not too heavy, even for her untrained stature. She understands now, exactly how to get herself into the armor.

Alistair hasn’t moved from his spot behind her; she can feel his presence lingering in the air and on her skin.

Aeres turns to face him, raising her arms to hook her fingers underneath the neck of her helm. Her hair comes loose as she pulls it off, ink-dark hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back.

“So you say.”

They are chest to chest now and it’s too hard to ignore the way he trembles against her, the way his breathing has gone shallow as he gazes down. He stands there, warm and broad-shouldered, with his deft, calloused hands that found their way across her body with surprising ease.

“Now…” Aeres tells him, voice rough,”  _help me take it off_.”


End file.
